This is Our Story
by Diary
Summary: It may sound like it, but the story of Neville and Luna isn't a typical love story. Yet, a love story it is. Complete.


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

…

It sounds like a typical love story –_insecure boy is charmed by carefree girl, carefree girl is grounded enough to function by serious boy_- but it's not.

When they first meet, he's legitimately terrified of her, wondering if she can do things worse than put a bloke in a body-bind and if she ought to be in a hospital ward like his parents are. He doesn't find her earnest explanations of bizarre creatures or her too-loud, too-long laughter of Ron's jokes to be harmless, let alone charming. Ron calls her _mad_, and Neville's been around madness enough to know Ron is more right than he realises.

For her part, she doesn't pay much attention to him. He's dull, she thinks, feeling guilty for the unkind thought. However, he is, in her mind. He's too serious and sour without even great intellect or a passion for change, for betterment, to temper it. Hermione, too, is frowning and disapproving, but she radiates energy, makes it obvious she can and will change the world, isn't shy about the fact she's smarter than all of them combined.

And this is them for a long time, him shying away from her, her not having any interest in his company.

Neither of them remember an exact time or date, just that one day, Harry says, _Neville, partner with Luna_.

They both love Harry, Neville because the cycle continues –_James Potter and Lily Evans died to protect Frank Longbottom and Alice Wood from death; it had to be one couple, and it turned out to be the former, and then, about ten years later, Harry Potter jumped on a too-big broom to protect Neville Longbottom_-, and Luna because she can see his pain, can empathise, and wants to make it clear she'll hold his hand until it gets better for both of them. They partner up without complaining, and she's brilliant and he's not.

Wands come into the discussion, and she realises his parents aren't around. He never says they're dead, she notices, but they aren't around. She thinks about her own mum and tentatively nudges her head against his neck. He gives her a thin smile and briefly considers telling her what he'd only tell Harry.

This isn't the beginning, not really.

A brief connection is made, and if not for circumstances, it'd fade quickly, mostly forgotten by both.

The beginning comes when Harry tries to use the Cruciatus curse on Bellatrix Lestrange. Some angry, vindictive part, the part that feels hot fury and bewildered sadness about never knowing his mum and dad, is gleeful at Harry's attempt and annoyed he couldn't do better, couldn't make her a mute, glassy-eyed creature that couldn't even change clothes or use the toilet by herself. He never lets that part take over, however, is always very careful not to let it get anywhere near out-of-control, and that leaves him disappointed in and scared of Harry.

Because he knows the Cruciatus curse is -_big boy, big girl, only for the powerful and brilliant_ _magic_- not something to be used lightly, not something to be used, at all. Every time he thinks there's an exception, he tells himself to shut up. Lestrange deserves prison, deserves death, deserves being deprived of everything she loves, but she doesn't deserve the fate of his parents, not even Voldemort deserves that, and sometimes, he doesn't believe that, but he keeps insisting to himself. What if the wrong death eater was caught or even just a suspected death eater and Harry or another one of the good guys decided there was no choice but that curse? A person's sanity, a person's self, stripped forever, pointlessly.

She finds him in the Room of Requirement, and he looks up, teary, red eyes, a bit of snot running down his upper lip. Suddenly, she sees him, sees the solid boy with a gift for plants, a kind word for others, sees the sad boy who grew up too fast -_never good enough, supposed to know and understand things he doesn't, and so, he'll keep trying to be the man no one wants to let him gradually grow into_. He's not a man, though, not a boy, just a confused, crying human being who no one has thought of in the last few hours.

So, she sits down, links her arm through his, and gently pushes his head onto her shoulder, not taking her hand off his ear until she's sure he'll stay.

And he realises, sitting there, face buried in fluffy, cloudy-coloured hair, that he's right, she isn't harmless, because after the ministry, it's clear none of them are, but nor is she the danger he thought. She's a kind girl, he realises, with ideas that may or may not be correct, but she's not a ticking dungbomb. She's not going to suddenly forget how to eat or decide to start biting anyone who wears bright green in her presence.

This doesn't catapult them into young lovers. It doesn't even make them friends. It just plants a seed, buries it deep enough to keep it safe until it's ready to be watered and given sun.

Afterwards, they leave, and they don't share anymore moments until later in the next school year.

Again, it comes down to Harry. Slughorn sees how fond he is of Neville and offers him extra-credit if he serves drinks at the party. Harry takes Luna as his date, somewhat ironically because he knows she won't go mental over it.

While he's busy elsewhere, they find themselves gravitating towards one another. They make small talk and end up agreeing to meet the next day so that he can check her Herbology homework.

That's where it begins, with a slow friendship.

He's always been biddable with people he trusts, and she ends up dragging him through the forbidden forest and through secret, unknown rooms in Hogwarts. He ends up sighing and taking off his own gloves and scarf and hat and ordering her to hold still as he puts them on her. She says something about an article in The Quibbler, and he realises her ideas can be interesting rather than terrifying. He makes a joke about dandelions, snapdragons, and Gryffindors, a joke others call lame, tired and cliché from how long it's been around, the kind even true devotees to Herbology don't even laugh politely at, and she bursts into uproarious laughter, realising when she finally comes down from her delight that he doesn't see everything in such a standard, boring way as she thought.

They write over the summer, her letters filled with articles not published to make room for Harry, his filled with his dreams for when the war is finally over, Lestrange forever neutralised.

During the school year, they work together to comfort the others, keep the frail ones from breaking, the too-angry ones from rushing into death. At night, they often curl into bed together, him sometimes crying, her sometimes speaking nonsense, words she doesn't understand, just needing to fill the air with her voice. When it comes Christmas time, she's uneasy about going home but determined to put protective spells on her father, and he's uneasy, too, but understands, after all his grandmother is on the run, immediate death if caught.

He kisses her forehead, wraps his favourite scarf around her neck, and holds her hand until the train comes.

When Snatchers take her, they both regret not giving one another a proper kiss.

She comes back, and he sees bitterness in her eyes. Taking off her kit, she shows him the knife-inflicted scars, her eyes almost dull as she does so.

And part of him is terrified, of course, he is, he's a not-quite boy, not-quite man in the middle of a war, child soldiers running about, making him remember how a body-bind by a bushy-haired witch, making an P on yet another assignment, those where his biggest worries at the same age, and he's in love with a person caught between girlhood and womanhood. Part of him is terrified, but he takes a breath, removes his kit and pulls her skin against his, nothing sexual, just letting their breathing synchronise. _She's taken from me, too,_ he reminds her. _You're safe, now. Just- I'll be here, yeah? Don't let her go deeper than the scars._

She shakes her head, voice exasperated as she informs him, _It doesn't work like that, Neville. She already has, and to deny so is foolish. _

Still, she cries against him when she needs to, sketches terrifying drawings, and sometimes rips up random items of clothing, and they talk.

The final battle, taking place where they learned to float feathers, fly, and the consequences of eating too many sweets, comes. After he helps blow up the bridge they both followed Harry across, the one she happily skipped across when she was a child while he, at the same age a year earlier, walked tentatively, slow in movement, terrified of the large, oldness of it, he finds her, briefly wrapping his arms around her, muttering, _This might not be the best time, but I'm utterly mad for you._

She smiles. Earlier, she had yelled, _Harry Potter, you listen to me_, knowing she could help, finally refusing to let people discover it on their own terms. Untangling herself, she reaches up, pulls his head down, and gives him a chaste, close-mouthed kiss.

They reluctantly part, and he kills a snake while she almost kills an attacking Lestrange, only to be saved by Fred Weasley. She's unable to help smiling when Molly Weasley succeeds, avenging the redheaded trickster, not in happiness but in peace and relief, her scars tingling, her heart erratic and heavy when she thinks of a too-sad boy who gave her an enchanted chain of daisies and lilacs for her birthday.

And when he sits down, she sits down next to him, both smiling happily, hands linked together, and this a love story.


End file.
